


Exile Vilify

by avatarish



Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: (eventually) - Freeform, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Bending (Avatar TV), Angst, Child Abuse, Dyslexia, Family Feels, Fluff, Hakoda and Bato own a flower shop and it's wholesome, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Lesbian Suki (Avatar), M/M, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sokka has a panic disorder, Sokka is dyslexic, Zuko (Avatar) Has PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-25
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-17 13:56:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28975470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/avatarish/pseuds/avatarish
Summary: Zuko doesn’t show up for class that morning.If it were Haru, or Teo, or Jet-especially if it were Jet-Sokka wouldn’t bat an eye. But Zuko’s father is fastidious about everything. Grades, appearance, attendance; Zuko is lacking in none of them.So there’s no reason for him to not be in homeroom, or Calculus, or Honors English IV.-Modern AU where Zuko and Sokka have been dating for nearly a year when Zuko's father gives him his scar.
Relationships: Aang/Katara (Avatar), Bato/Hakoda (Avatar), Sokka/Zuko (Avatar)
Comments: 21
Kudos: 273





	1. Does It Trouble Your Mind (The Way You Trouble Mine)

Zuko doesn’t show up for class that morning.

If it were Haru, or Teo, or Jet-especially if it were Jet-Sokka wouldn’t bat an eye. But Zuko’s father is fastidious about  _ everything _ . Grades, appearance, attendance; Zuko is lacking in none of them. It’s verging on a problem, to be honest-Sokka knows, he does, he’s seen enough of Zuko’s panic attacks by now.

So there’s no reason for him to not be in homeroom, or Calculus, or Honors English IV. Sokka starts to panic when their shared Painting elective rolls around and Zuko still hasn’t texted him back. 

“He’s probably just sick,” Suki says as she tries to get the right angle of shadow on her apple still life, and  _ bless her _ , she’s reasonable but completely clueless to the significance of Zuko’s absence. Sokka smiles weakly at her as she pats his back.

“Maybe he slept in?” Toph suggests at lunch, and Sokka nearly laughs out loud, because Zuko has never slept past 7AM in his life, not once.

During sixth period Biology, Aang suggests that Sokka text Zuko’s uncle, and Sokka nearly kisses the top of his sister’s boyfriend’s bald little head in relief. Sokka knows that, next to him, Aang knows Zuko best; knows that this can’t be a case of stomachache or oversleeping.

Iroh doesn’t text back, though. He checks his phone every few minutes during his shift at Mother Earth Floral & Gift. He’s so distracted that he runs right into Bato, who drops several lilies and a vase to the floor and jabs Sokka in the arm with a floral pick.

“Hakoda, your son is creating chaos again.”

Sokka hears his father sigh dramatically from behind the register. “What else is new?”

“I’m your son, too,” Sokka says stubbornly, stuffing the lilies back into the vase and handing it to Bato. “You marry my dad, you get my chaos. Package deal.”

“And I wouldn’t change it for the world.” Bato claps him on the shoulder. “What’s got you so distracted?”

“Zuko didn’t show up for school today.” Sokka checks his phone again. Still nothing. “And I haven’t heard from him, or his uncle.”

“Doesn’t he have a sister you could text?” Hakoda asks.

Sokka grimaces. “Not if I can help it. Azula is scary.”

“Well, I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation,” Bato says, but the look he shares with Hakoda feels too concerned-parent for Sokka to be put at ease.

When Katara gets home from her tai chi class, she pulls Sokka into the walk-in and shuts the door behind them.

“Azula wasn’t at the studio today.”

Sokka balks. “What?”

“Yeah.” Katara shifts a flat of daisies onto a shelf and sits down on an overturned bucket. “She’s never missed a class. Or an opportunity to criticize everyone’s form and show off.”

“Zuko hasn’t responded to any of my texts.” Sokka holds up his phone. “Neither has his uncle.”

“Something’s definitely up.”

“You don’t think-” Katara breaks off.

“What?”

“Well, I...at the studio, a few weeks ago-” Her voice is hesitant, unsure in a way that Katara usually isn’t. “Azula had this bruise-which isn’t necessarily unusual, I mean, we’re doing martial arts, people get hurt sometimes-”

“Cut to the point, Katara!” Sokka snaps.

“It just seemed strange, that’s all,” she finishes lamely. “I don’t know. It’s probably nothing.”

Sokka shakes his head. “I don’t know. Something feels off about this.”

“Let’s wait and see if they show up to school tomorrow,” Katara says, and Sokka loves her for it. As often as he’s the rational one when she’s freaking out about something, she returns the favor. “And if they don’t, we’ll figure something out.”

Sokka agrees, if only because he doesn’t have a better plan.

But Zuko doesn’t show up the next day. In fact, Zuko doesn’t show up the rest of the week.

On Thursday, though, when Sokka is practically vibrating with panic and ready to break into the Sozin mansion with Katara, Aang, Toph, and Suki in tow, he finally gets a text from Iroh.

**Iroh Sozin**

Zuko is home sick with the flu. I apologize, Sokka, 

for making you wait so long. Zuko’s father only 

just informed me.

_Delivered 3:32PM_

It relaxes Sokka minutely, but something still pokes at the back of his mind, like Bato with his flower pick. He texts Zuko again, offering soup, but isn’t surprised at the lack of response.

At the end of the week, Azula shows back up at school. She’s paler than Sokka remembers, but seems relatively okay. He imagines she must have had the same bug as Zuko.

Katara, though, seems unconvinced. She mentions it during family movie night on Friday, in the middle of a Pixar movie about feelings that has Bato crying into Hakoda’s sleeve every few minutes.

“How do I help someone who hates me?”

Hakoda sits up straighter, and Sokka can tell he’s excited to have latched onto a Parenting Moment™️. “That depends. Can I ask who you’re talking about?”

She hesitates momentarily. “Azula. She seemed really upset tonight at tai chi.”

“What do you mean, upset?”

Katara looks over at Sokka, her eyebrows knitted together. “I caught her crying in the bathroom.”

“Azula?” Sokka exclaims. “I didn’t know she could cry.”

“Don’t be mean,” Katara admonishes him. “She looked like she was really hurting, dad. What do I do?”

“Well, Katara,” Hakoda says patiently, and Sokka kind of wants to roll his eyes at the formal-but-friendly parent thing he’s got going on. “What are some tangible ways you could be nice to Azula right now?”

“I guess I could see if she wants to study together sometime,” Katara says uncertainly. 

There you go!” Hakoda nods sagely. Bato nods vigorously at Sokka, crossing his eyes in a mockery of Hakoda’s serious parent face, and Sokka bursts out laughing. 

Hakoda looks over just in time to see the face, of course. “No ice cream for you, then.”

He still gives Bato ice cream, of course. Katara requests a smoothie. Sokka stares out the dining room window as the sun bleeds into the trees, distracted enough that his ice cream melts right into soup.

He’s still tossing and turning at 1AM when his phone buzzes on the nightstand, lighting up with an incoming text. He grabs it so quickly he nearly fumbles it.

**Zuko Sozin**

I’m sorry Sokka

_ Delivered 1:02AM _

His hands are shaking as he types out one, two, five different responses and deletes each one in turn.

**Sokka Imiq**

Are you okay?

_ Delivered 1:05AM _

Sokka waits and waits for a response, his eyes starting to droop around 3AM. He reawakens late on Saturday to the smell of pancakes and a single text from Aang, featuring a video of Appa chasing Momo across a sleeping Gyatso. It helps his overwhelming anxiety just a little-especially when Gyatso sits up with Momo still clinging to his head with his furry little paws, Appa barking at his feet-but he can’t stop worrying about Zuko.

Hakoda slides a plate of pancakes across the counter to him when he slumps into the kitchen. “Hey there, sunshine. Any plans today?”

Sokka shrugs. “I might go to the library and study with Toph, if that’s okay.”

“Sure thing.” His father draws a smiley face in whipped cream on the top of the pancake stack. “Try to be back in time to help Bato with the weekend deliveries? Around 4 or 5.”

“Thanks, dad.” He slings his backpack over his shoulders, zipping up his hoodie.

“No pancakes?” Bato asks, brushing against Sokka on his way out of the kitchen. 

“Not hungry,” Sokka mumbles, and hurries out of the house, pretending like he can’t feel both of his dads staring intently at his back.

He’s mildly hungry-he’s a teenage boy with a fast metabolism, when isn’t he?-but he needs as much time as possible to get out to Caldera Park. He feels bad, lying to his dads, but he knows that Toph will cover for him because it’s a good cause. Something isn’t right with Zuko, he can feel it, and it’s time to find out what.

When he gets off the bus stop at the gate of the Sozin mansion, he looks left and right, then pushes away the ivy and shimmies through a gap in the fence.

It’s a hot summer day, and the gardeners are out in full force, shaping hedges and mowing lawns and trimming the excessive amount of greenery all over the massive lawn. He ducks and dodges behind the fountains and statues that bedeck the haven of the uber-wealthy until he reaches the trellis under Zuko’s third-floor bedroom.

He’s seen Zuko’s room so many times. Mostly under the cover of night, when his father could be counted upon to be asleep. But now, the deep red curtains are drawn, and even from outside Sokka can feel something tainting the air, a sour feeling of fear.

He pushes his way through the curtains and drops silently to the floor. There’s a figure curled up in Zuko’s bed, covered in several blankets, and the room is dark and shadowed.

His stomach twists when he sees a swath of white bandages across the left side of the figure’s face, accompanied by the stark strands of black hair that he knows must belong to-

“Zuko,” he whispers. “Zuko, what-”

“Who’s there?” Zuko is up, suddenly, swaying in a sweat-darkened t-shirt and boxers and holding a pocketknife. “Stay away from me!”

“Zuko, it’s Sokka.” He keeps his voice as calm as possible, tries to stay as rational as he can when he’s staring at his boyfriend and  _ spirits _ , he’s shaking like a leaf. “It’s Sokka.”

“Sokka.” His voice is quiet, unsure, and he sinks back down to the bed, legs clearly unwilling to carry him any longer. “I texted you.”

“I was worried about you.” He sits down across the bed from him and reaches across, touching Zuko’s hand with just the tips of his fingers. It makes him flinch and Sokka feels something inside him snap in half. “Zuko, what happened?”

“Can you take me to my uncle’s apartment?” 

“I-of course, yeah.” Zuko has been on the quiet side the entire time Sokka’s known him, but never like this. Nothing like this. “Do you have anything you need to bring?”

“Backpack.”

He helps Zuko down the trellis, careful to keep out of sight of the various gardeners milling about the property. He realizes halfway down that Zuko cannot hear out of the ear on the bandaged side of his head and presses the simmering rage down deeper into his chest to put his arm around Zuko’s upper half and lower him to the ground.

By the time they make it to the bus, it’s nearly 3pm. He’s not going to make it home in time for evening deliveries with Bato, but Zuko looks like he’s on the brink of collapse, pale and sweating.

Sokka presses a hand to the back of Zuko’s forehead. “You feel feverish.”

“That’s probably the fever,” he says through gritted teeth, and offers Sokka a feral grin.  _ When did he learn to smile like a cornered animal? _

Iroh’s apartment is about an hour away from the Sozin mansion, just a ten minute walk from Sokka’s house, nestled above his tea shop in the urban hipster district. By the time they’re outside, Zuko is leaning fully on Sokka, breathing raggedly with every step. 

When Iroh answers the door, his smile drops right off his face. 

The next fifteen minutes is a rush of Zuko collapsing into bed, Sokka pressing cold towels against the exposed half of his forehead while Iroh calls for a doctor. He wants to take Zuko to the emergency room, but Zuko shrinks further into his own frame every time Iroh mentions leaving. Either way, he’s in no condition to move, and is terrifyingly still by the time the doctor shows up.

Iroh and Sokka are pushed gently but firmly to the corner of the room, sitting in chairs Iroh has dragged in from the dining room. She unwinds the bandage gently from Zuko’s skull to reveal a charred red burn covering the upper half of his face and ear, his eye almost completely swollen shut.

Sokka grabs the wastebasket, vomiting until he feels hollow. Next to him, he can feel Iroh gripping the arms of the chair so hard he’s sure the wood will snap in half.

He doesn’t take his eyes off Zuko, not until after the doctor gives Zuko antibiotics and a sedative, not until Iroh and the doctor have left the room, conversing in quiet, somber voices. Can’t take his eyes off him; can’t bear to think that Zuko was in so much pain, in  _ this much pain _ , and said nothing.

So he unpacks Zuko’s backpack. He hopes it’s not a breach of privacy, prays to every spirit that he’s grown up believing in that he’s doing the right thing. He figures that, if it were him, laying there in bed so pale and unmoving and exhausted, he’d want to wake up surrounded by familiar things.

It becomes instantly clear that Zuko was prepared to run. The backpack is full of granola bars and clean t-shirts, socks and underwear, various toiletries and the leather-bound notebooks that Sokka knows are full of poetry that Zuko doesn’t let anyone else see, not even him.

At the bottom of the bag, there’s a worn stuffed animal, a true monstrosity of a creature that looks to be the body of a turtle with the head of a duck sewn onto it. He’s seen it before, if only once or twice; knows that Zuko’s mom had made it for him, shortly before she’d disappeared.

He tucks it carefully into the crook of Zuko’s arm, smoothing his hand across his forehead and brushing his sweaty hair away from the rebandaged burn. The nausea rises again in his stomach, but he pushes it down.

When Iroh returns, Sokka relegates himself to the kitchen to give him some time alone with his nephew. He finds eight missed calls; two from Bato, three from Katara, and five from Hakoda. The task of calling them back, of finding the words to describe it all, feels insurmountable, but his fingers call Hakoda on autopilot.

“Sokka? Are you okay?” are the first words out of his father’s mouth, and he tries to stop it, tries to push back against the tidal wave that swells up in his chest, but he can’t do it and the sobs force their way out of him like a sentient entity.

He can hear his father saying his name frantically, can hear Bato and Katara’s concerned voices in the background. It takes him a good fifteen minutes, but the hyperventilating sobs peter off and his breathing slowly steadies. Hakoda started breathing with him at some point, deep and sure and soothing. 

“I went to Zuko’s house to check on him.” His voice is still unsteady, and he keeps it quiet, not wanting to disturb Zuko or Iroh. “He-spirits, dad, somebody hurt him, really bad. He had this insane fever and he asked me to take him to his uncle so I did and we had to call a doctor and-”

“Hey, hey, Sokka. Honey, take a breath.” He hears the jangle of Bato’s overfilled keyring in the background. “We’re going to come get you, okay?”

“I’m not leaving Zuko,” he says shakily. His breathing is still erratic; he can feel it punching down into his lungs and back out again.

“That’s okay, sweetheart,” Hakoda says encouragingly. “Just keep working on your breathing, okay? Can you text me Zuko’s uncle’s address?”

He types it out with shaking hands, fumbling letters and numbers. His dyslexia doesn’t make it easy on a good day, and today it takes five tries to get everything in the right order. 

“You’re doing so good, Sokka.” He hears the rev of an engine in the background. “I’m going to hand the phone over to Katara, okay? She’s gonna keep you company while I keep Bato on the road. You know how bad he is at navigating.”

Bato protests loudly in the background and Sokka gives a weak laugh as Katara starts to tell him about her day. She steers clear of any mention of tai chi or Azula, for which he’s grateful.

They arrive just a few minutes later; it’s not far away. Katara is the first in, and she kneels in front of Sokka, taking his hands in hers and rubbing them. She knows the symptoms just as well, if not better, than Hakoda and Bato; she was there for Sokka’s first panic attack in the third grade, his panic disorder diagnosis in middle school, the attempts to find the right medications and treatments and therapist.

She pulls the tin out of Sokka’s coat pocket where it’s draped over one of Iroh’s dining room chairs, opening it and offering Sokka a hydroxyzine. The tin is shaped like Mario; it’s his emergency meds. He shakes his head, though, because hydroxyzine will get rid of the panic, but it will also put him to sleep.

“Sokka, please,” Katara says quietly. “I can’t imagine how much you must be hurting right now.”

“I need to be awake in case he wakes up.” Sokka rubs his hands over his red-rimmed eyes. 

“Dad and Bato went in to talk to Iroh.” She curls up next to him, puts her arm around him and drags him into the crook of her body.

“It was horrible,” he whispers. He can say it because he’s looking away, staring at the chartreuse tiling on Iroh’s kitchen floor. “It’s fucked up, Katara.”

“I know.” She trails her hand through his short hair where it’s come loose from his ponytail. “I know.”


	2. Now You're Thinking Too Fast (You're Like Marbles On Glass)

When Zuko wakes up, his head feels like it’s stuffed with cotton.

“Do not move too fast.” The voice is soft and soothing, like something long forgotten from childhood. “You have been asleep for quite awhile.”

“Uncle…” He raises a hand to his throat. His voice doesn’t sound like his own; it’s hoarser, as if every word grates against the inside of his windpipe. “What…”

He feels something cold and sharp press against his lips. An ice chip, he thinks, as it slips into his mouth and melts against his tongue. He raises his hand to brush against the bandages still covering half his face.

“You have had quite a week.” He sees Iroh’s hand out of the corner of his eye, and he knows his uncle, knows that he would never harm a hair on his head, but he can’t help it; he flinches.

The look on Iroh’s face is enough to devastate. He’s quick to smooth it over, though, and instead lays his hand on the bed, fingertips just inches away from Zuko’s.

“Father?” he asks quietly, because he doesn’t know what else to say.

A shadow casts over Iroh’s face. “Zuko-”

“It wasn’t his fault.” 

It’s not a conscious choice. The words pour from Zuko before he can stop them, the defense that Ozai had instructed him to give. He explains the accident; the gas stove, the matches. Tells his uncle, in his hoarse, tired voice, that his father had been in his office, hadn’t seen or heard a thing until Zuko had screamed. 

He plays his part as the dutiful son. He does what needs to be done.

Iroh, of course, is clear in his disbelief. He leaves Zuko to rest, but the way his eyebrows are knitted together at the center of his face as he exits the room makes it clear that the conversation is far from over.

The first thing he sees when he sits up are his journals, stacked on the bedside table next to a glass of peach juice. Sokka is here, then. He’s the only one who knows that Zuko’s favorite juice is peach, and he trusts Sokka enough to know that he hasn’t pried into the journals.

As if summoned, the door creaks and Sokka peeks through, looking unusually hesitant. “Is it okay if I come in?”

Zuko nods, not trusting his voice to speak. Sokka sits in the same chair that Iroh just vacated and grimaces. “Your uncle really warmed this thing up. It’s like a sauna for my ass.”

It makes Zuko laugh, and he’s struck by it, the way that Sokka knew immediately to put him at ease with humor. He sits up a little and reaches out hesitantly, tangling his fingers with Sokka’s.

Sokka’s face goes soft, and for a terrible moment Zuko thinks he’s about to have an armful of crying boyfriend. Instead, Sokka squeezes his hand so lightly he wonders if he imagined it.

“I don’t know what to say,” Sokka whispers into the overwhelming quiet of the room. “I kept planning it out in my head, trying to figure out what the best thing to say would be. Should I ask how you’re feeling? Pretend everything is fine? Dress in drag and do the hula?”

“Quoting the Lion King at me is a good start,” Zuko says, still trying to get used to the rough drag of his voice. 

Sokka chuckles, stroking his thumb over the back of Zuko’s hand. “Well, at least I’m doing something right.”

The next few weeks are a repetitive cycle of sleeping, eating what little food he can stomach, and avoiding his uncle’s attempts to wheedle the truth about his injury out of him. Sokka comes by every day after school and sits with him at the big bay window of the apartment, telling him about Suki’s award for sculpture work and Aang’s fight for the school cafeteria to stock more vegetarian options and Toph’s newfound passion for vigilante justice, aka mild arson. Sokka assures him it’s fine-or, at least, only one building got torched  _ and it was the office of a super corrupt businessman, so it’s totally okay, Zuko _ .

A few days before he’s due to get his bandages removed, Iroh tells him that Azula’s turned up missing.

“The last day she showed up to school was the day you ran away.” He’s sitting across the kitchen table from Zuko, who’s pushing peas around his still mostly full plate and doesn’t answer. Iroh only lets it slide for a few minutes before pressing. “Zuko, I know that you do not want to talk about what really happened, but I am afraid for you and for Azula if you do not share.”

“If I tell you where she is, will you stop asking me?” he says quietly.

Iroh sighs deeply, pushing his own plate away. “I am worried for you, my nephew.”

“I’m fine.” It’s a lie, and it gnaws at Zuko’s heart, burrows deep in his chest.

“You have gone through a great trauma,” Iroh says calmly, though he’s grasping his mug of tea with enough force that Zuko’s shocked it’s still in one piece. “I do not know what happened, Zuko, but I do know that you will not find peace until you are able to set down this burden. When you are ready to do so, I am here.”

“Azula is at Mai’s house.” He takes his plate over to the sink. It takes him a couple tries to get it in without chipping it on the metal; his depth perception is frustratingly different now.

**Zuko Sozin** _Sent 6:52PM_

I had to tell Uncle where you are.

**Azula Sozin** _Delivered 6:58PM_

Bitch.

I hope you’re okay.

Sokka is at school when Zuko’s due to have his bandages removed. He’d offered to skip, practically begged Zuko to give him a reason. Zuko remembers, though. Remembers, through the haze of fever and pain, seeing Sokka pale and vomiting into a wastebasket.

When the doctor has unwound the bandages from his face and he’s standing alone in the dimly lit bathroom, he understands why. He’d assumed that Sokka had been disgusted at the mass of burnt flesh that occupied half of his partner’s face, revolted at the deformity of it. But Sokka is many things, and shallow is not one of them. Sokka knows every bad thing Zuko has done, every mistake he’s ever made, and loves him anyways.

He understands that Sokka was sick at the thought of someone hurting him so badly that it left such a visceral mark.

He runs his fingers gently along the puckered skin, tracing up the edge of the scar from chin to forehead. The movement tickles slightly; the doctor warned him that some of the nerves might be deadened from the depth of the burn. He’s starting to regain sight in his left eye, but it’s blurry and faded, like he’s looking at an old photograph that’s been left out in the sun. The hearing in his left ear is much the same; tinny, like he’s listening in from underwater.

When Sokka arrives for his daily visit after school, he finds Zuko sitting on the bathroom floor, knees pressed to his chest, fingers still tracing his scar as he stares at the soft green bathmat opposite him.

It’s three in the afternoon, but Sokka draws the blinds in Zuko’s room and fluffs the pillows and pulls him into bed, cradling him in his arms. It’s the first full-body touch that Zuko has allowed since before it happened, and it soothes him and overwhelms him at the same time. He’s never felt safer, but his eyes are pricking with tears at the feeling of someone else’s skin against his.

“If you need me to go, I can go,” Sokka whispers into his hair.

“Please, please don’t leave,” Zuko whispers back, but he can hear his father scolding him in the back of his head, mocking his neediness, so he curls further into Sokka’s arms and he cries and cries and cries.


	3. You Got Sucker's Luck (Have You Given Up)

Sokka wakes up at 5AM the day after Zuko cries himself to sleep in his arms. 

He sneaks out while Zuko is still asleep. Makes sure to leave him a note and a fresh glass of peach juice. Tiptoes past Iroh where he’s meditating by the bay window in the living room.

He doesn’t go home. He can’t, right now; knows that if he goes home, he will sit on the bed in his room and think too much and fall apart, and he cannot fall apart right now.

He needs to hold it together, for Zuko, so he doesn’t go home. 

He ends up taking the bus to Suki’s apartment. Her mom is overseas again on a business trip, so it’s just her, and he knows she’ll be awake, morning person that she is.

“Hey there, cutie!” she says when she opens the door, wrapped in a green flannel bathrobe with a toothbrush in her hand. “What’s up?”

To his absolute horror, Sokka feels his face crumple.

Suki looks alarmed, but to her credit, she composes herself within seconds, and ushers him in and onto the living room couch. He pulls the rim of his shirt over his face and breathes raggedly, trying to compose himself, while she brews some tea. When she returns with a steaming mug, he’s at least marginally calmer.

“So.” She tucks a blanket around his shoulders and sits across from him on the edge of the coffee table. “How, um. How are you?”

He laughs weakly. “I’ve been better.”

“Yeah, I’m getting that vibe.” She sips her tea. “Do you want to talk about it?”

He thinks about it for a moment. “Actually? Not really. I kinda just want to not think about it for a little bit.”

“Escape mode. Got it.” She stands up and offers him her hand. “Come with me.”

He follows her into her room, where she gathers up all the blankets pillows off her bed and shoves them into his arms. They do the same thing in her mom’s vacant bedroom, and in the linen closet.

They end up building the best blanket fort Sokka’s ever seen, possibly the best one ever made. It’s a mishmash of afghans and duvets draped over every piece of furniture in Suki’s small apartment, pillows lining the floor inside like a patchwork mattress. She’s taken the twinkly star lights from her room and strung them up inside. They end up curled up with their backs against the couch, watching old Disney movies on Suki’s ancient VHS player.

It’s somehow exactly what he needs.

His dad calls around 10. Suki, bless her heart, heads to the kitchen to make pancakes and give him some privacy. 

“Any particular reason why you’re not at school?”

Sokka traces the seam of the pillow under his thigh with a fingernail. “I couldn’t today. It’s just-it’s a lot. Right now.”

“I know.” Hakoda sighs. “I know it is. Where are you right now?”

“At Suki’s.”

“Next time, let me know where you are if you decide to skip.” It’s only a request, not an order, and it’s part of why Sokka loves his father so, so much. “Try to be home by 5. It’s spaghetti night, so Bato’s cooking.”

“Well, if Bato’s cooking, I’m staying here,” Sokka says teasingly, and he hears Bato shouting indignantly in the background. “Thanks, dad.”

“Of course, Sokka.” Hakoda’s voice softens. “I love you, son.”

“I love you, too.”

Suki returns with chocolate chip pancakes just after he’s hung up. They’re Mickey Mouse shaped, because she’s nothing if not an incurable dork, and they’re the most delicious thing he’s ever eaten. They watch Robin Hood next, because it’s “objectively the best Disney movie, come on, Sokka,  _ talking animals rebelling against the bourgeoisie _ ”, and follow it up with Brave, because both of them love the scene where Merida shoots for her own hand.

He decides to head home in the late afternoon, feeling remarkably more centered. Suki hugs him tightly, handing him a tupperware of leftover Mickey Mouse pancakes and some lavender bath salts.

“They’re helpful for me. I know it won’t change whatever’s going on, but at least you’ll smell nice.” She tucks a stray piece of hair back into his ponytail. 

“Are you saying I smell bad?” 

She laughs in that clear, sweet Suki way, and  _ oh _ , he’s so glad that she’s his best friend, this funky little lesbian. “Yes, Sokka. I thought now was a good time to tell you that you stink.”

“I’m truly wounded.”

She smiles, though it’s still tinged with that familiar worry he’s seeing on faces all the time now. “If you need to talk, I’m just one phone call away.”

“I’ll tell you, I promise.” He scuffs the toe of his converse on the sidewalk. “I’m just not ready to talk about it quite yet.”

She squeezes his hand. “In your own time.”

When he gets home, Katara is pacing in front of the house, Aang sitting on the porch steps behind her and playing with a yo-yo. When Sokka walks up, she runs up to him, looking equal parts furious and deeply relieved.   
  


“Where have you been?”

“At Suki’s. I figured dad would tell you.”

“He did, but I figured you were lying.”

“Really, Katara,” Sokka says, taking on a grandiose affronted air. “I would never lie to my father. Whatever would give you that idea?”

“I was worried,” she says flatly. “After what happened with Zuko-”

“It’s none of your business,” he retorts, and he instantly regrets how sharp his tone is, but it’s too late now. Katara looks deflated.

“Well, glad that you’re okay, I guess.” She brushes past him. “Come on, Aang. Let’s go get frozen yogurt.”

“Katara-” he tries to say, but she’s already on her bike and pedaling away down the sidewalk. Aang pats him awkwardly on the shoulder.

“Uh...want me to bring you back some frozen yogurt?”

Sokka shrugs his hand off. “No thanks.”

“She’ll come around, Sokka.” He gets on his bike, a bright orange contraption covered with “Save The Earth!” stickers. “I’ll talk to her for you.”

He watches them pedal away around the corner before heading inside. There’s a few letters on the counter for him, mostly advertisements from various colleges. The idea of graduation, of going to college and starting an adult life seems so nebulous now, with the fear and the grief and the overwhelming reality of what’s happened.

At the bottom of the pile, there’s a cream colored envelope with no return address. It’s sealed with a cardinal red sticker, and contains a single notecard with two sentences scrawled across it.

_ Leave him be. You’ll only make things worse for him _ .

He doesn’t remember sliding down the cabinets to sit on the floor, but that’s where he finds himself when he comes back to reality several minutes later, the tell-tale hyperventilation of a panic attack slowly fading. He scrambles with the tin of emergency panic medication, flips the lid open and pops a hydroxyzine. 

He makes it as far as his bed before he collapses in fully-clothed, exhaustion and sedative qualities of the medication finally claiming him, words still ringing through his head.

When he wakes up, it’s to the sound of someone rapping their knuckles against the door to his room. 

“Sokka? You awake?” Bato’s deep voice drifts through the wood. Sokka can smell tomato sauce and fresh-cooked pasta. “Dinner’s almost ready, if your father’s managed not to burn the sauce in the time I’ve been away from the kitchen.”

He stumbles up out of bed and opens the door to his room. Bato raises an eyebrow at him and wrinkles his nose. 

“Please tell me you’re not hungover right now. I’m not sure I’m fully equipped to deal with that parenting scenario.”

“It’s just my meds,” he says hoarsely, and  _ spirits _ , even his voice sounds disoriented.

Bato smiles sympathetically. “Another panic attack?”

He nods, running a hand through his hair. Most of it has come loose from his ponytail and is sticking up in all directions. He’s sure his shirt is wrinkled beyond belief-and, now that he thinks about it, Suki’s comment about smell might not have been far off. He’s been in these clothes since the previous morning.

“Tell you what,” Bato says, giving him a pat on the shoulder only after Sokka nods his consent, “do you want to eat in here? I can bring you some spaghetti.”

“I’m not really hungry,” Sokka mumbles, scratching his neck.

“Well, then, I’ll put some in a Tupperware for you and you can have it later.” He hesitates in the doorway. “Look, I know I usually play more of the fun parent role, but if you need someone to talk to-”

“I’m okay. Really.” It doesn’t sound convincing, not by a long shot, and Sokka knows that. “I’m just gonna do some homework and turn in early. Maybe take a bath.”

“Okay. Well…” Bato smiles at him. “I’m here if you need me.”

“Thanks, Bato,” he says, and he means it. 

He tries to work on his Calculus homework, but after an hour of fruitless effort and distraction, rules it a lost cause. He’s trying to decide if he should use Suki’s bath salts tonight when his phone vibrates with a text.

**Zuko Sozin** _Delivered 6:48PM_

Can you come over?

He doesn’t even think twice. He shoots an affirmative text back and repacks his backpack. He thinks about asking his dads, but in the end rules against it. Nothing is going to stop him from being there for Zuko. 

  
_ Ask forgiveness, not permission _ , he figures, and he climbs out of his bedroom window and stealthily makes his way through the trees to the nearest bus stop.


End file.
